


Royal Precedence

by welzes



Category: Fire Emblem Echoes: Mou Hitori no Eiyuu Ou | Fire Emblem Echoes: Shadows of Valentia
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 10:36:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18715309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welzes/pseuds/welzes
Summary: On the second year of the Empire's poor harvest, Berkut's mother collapses.





	Royal Precedence

On the second year of the Empire's poor harvest, his mother collapses. A throng of maids rush to her side and cause a ruckus in the halls of the castle. The commotion draws the attention of a passing knight, who takes the lady into his arms and to her bedchamber. Berkut is out on the grounds when this is all transpiring, and only hears the news once the sun is about to set.

Ever strong in spirit, his mother has always suffered the curse of a frail body. Moreover, even the nobles' portions have been slowly diminishing with the Empire's ongoing famine. He fears what this all means for his suddenly ailing mother.

All but tossing his practice lance to the ground, Berkut rushes to her side. At the chamber, his mother waves a fussy maid away to level a scowl at him.

"Berkut," she says in a thin voice, "why are you here?"

He straightens. He understands what she is asking of him. The sun is still shining, albeit weakly, and its rays have entered the bedchamber through a well-placed window to cast a glow on his mother's pale skin. Ordinarily, he is not meant to return indoors for another hour.

"Mother, I—" starts Berkut.

"You are young yet. Squander this time, and you will surely regret your inaction in the future. Now go, and allow me my rest," says his mother.

"I . . . Of course. Forgive me, Mother."

"I will not be joining you and His Majesty for supper."

Swallowing, Berkut gives a curt nod, then turns back around. Slow, heavy footfalls sound his departure as he returns to the outdoors, where he hardly feels the usual sting of the chilly Rigelian evening.  
  


* * *

  
Following supper, he doesn't retire to his own chamber straightaway. First, he stops before his mother's door. Inhaling slowly, he raps his knuckles on the solid wood before letting himself inside.

A couple of maids flit about in the bedchamber. A fire has been lit to keep the cold embrace of night at bay. His mother is still bedridden with layers of blankets piled atop her lithe body; on noticing his entrance, she pulls herself upright.

Before she can get a word in edgewise, Berkut reaches her bedside in a matter of a few strides.

"Mother, have you eaten?"

"I have," says his mother. Slowly, she continues, "What brings you here? If it is because of what happened earlier, it was a mere fall."

"How can you be so sure?" asks Berkut, to which his mother's eyes narrow.

Reaching out, she lays a hand on his arm and squeezes. Even in her weakened state, her reproachful grip is firm.

"You are a prince. Your priorities lie elsewhere, not in fretting over something so small. I will not have you coming here every night when you can be retiring to awaken early in the morn. More than anything, you must attend to your studies." She relinquishes her hold and waves toward the door. "Now go, while there is still time."

With taut shoulders, Berkut can only say, "Yes, Mother."  
  


* * *

  
He resumes his studies the next day as though the day prior had been no different from the rest. Only, he breaks fast with His Majesty and not his mother, who has yet to emerge from her bedchambers. If her absence has affected His Majesty in any capacity, the ever reticent Emperor doesn't show it; following this example, Berkut, too, straightens his posture and schools his features into a hardened scowl.

As the sun rises and falls, Berkut struggles to resist the temptation of going to his mother throughout his daily activities. When night falls, he has his meal with His Majesty once more and returns to his chamber without making a single detour.

No news is good news, he tells himself.  
  


* * *

  
His mother has forbidden him from making uninvited visits. Unable to approach her bedchamber, Berkut flags down one of the maids in the castle's halls.

"You there," he says with as much commanding presence as he can muster in his thirteen years of age, "I recognize you. You serve my mother. It has been several days since the incident. How is she?"

Taken by surprise, the maid stammers out that she is no royal physician, and thus not qualified to give a proper answer to his query. Berkut presses her for one regardless.

"I care not. Tell me, is she on her feet again?"

It is a simple question that even a lowly maid can answer. In this case, the reply is no. His mother's condition has not worsened; however, she has decided to rest for the time being, so His Highness need not concern himself on this matter.

Berkut arches his eyebrows.

"I am not troubled. I merely wished to know if she will be joining His Majesty for meals soon," he says.

The words feel clumsy on his tongue as they tumble out of his mouth. If the maid senses his unease, she makes no indication of it. He dismisses her with a word and then a snap of his wrist, and he nearly follows her to his mother's bedchamber.  
  


* * *

  
After the first month, the compulsion to see his ailing mother subsides. The worry that had gnawed at him from the inside is now a dull knock that occasionally reminds him of the old urge—one that he dismisses with the hardening of his face and an even fiercer stab of his lance when it strikes in the middle of the grounds. No news is good news, and his studies take precedence.

Another month passes. He steals a glance or two at His Majesty during their meals. Emperor Rudolf never says a word beyond their usual exchanges, which are already few. They eat in silence.

In the following weeks, he catches the tail end of a conversation among gossiping maids. They mention his mother—but, upon noticing his presence around the corner, they scatter to the winds with all the grace of a dazed cat. It's the first time, he realizes, that he's heard an open discussion about his mother in weeks.

No news is good news.

The rumor mill cannot be trusted. Even so, his heart gives a treacherous lurch.  
  


* * *

  
Half a year later, the day of Berkut's fourteenth year is just around the corner when he receives a summons from his mother. He nearly drops everything right then and there to answer it, but refrains from committing such a brazen breach of etiquette in the royal tutor's presence. He informs the maid that he will stop by at the end of the day, just the way his mother would want.

The rest of the day is a blur. From morning to evening, he pushes the matter of his mother's summons to the back of his mind and wholly devotes himself to perfecting his knowledge and skill. Supper with His Majesty is a cold and silent affair, nothing out of the ordinary—even the meager portions that leave his developing body wanting for more, though one of the maids would occasionally bring an additional morsel to his chamber once he'd retired for the night.

Afterward, he briskly makes his way over to the bedchamber, where his mother receives him from her bed.

He has never seen her so feeble before. Her skin is ashen; and her eyes, once bright and sharper than the point of a sword, are now sunken. At that moment, Berkut understands why his mother had forbidden him from seeing her. He kneels at the bedside of a woman courting death.

His mother turns her head to study his face.

"Berkut," she says in a soft, reedy voice, "how are your studies?"

He croaks out an answer. As soon as the words leave his lips, he doesn't remember what he's said. His gaze is affixed to his mother's sickly countenance, and his hands itch from the desire to reach out and clasp hers.

Berkut starts. His mother has raised a lethargic hand to caress his cheek, an intimate gesture that he hasn't felt in years. Since his father's passing, his mother had ceased to make such gestures.

"Mother?"

"Berkut, my love. You are not your uncle's son. There are those who will ever question your right to sit upon the imperial throne. Even so, you must remember who you are. Do you understand?" she asks.

"I . . . I do. I am your son, but I am His Majesty's heir," says Berkut, his eyes flitting to where his mother's hand rests on his face. "It would be remiss of me to forget. Rest assured, Mother: I will remember."

No matter what, he will whose son and whose heir he is. No amount of corruption running rampant in Rigel's court can change this.

With a contented sigh, his mother pulls back and Berkut inwardly mourns the loss of her touch.  
  


* * *

  
After three long years, Rigel's food stockpiles have run dry. With no other recourse left to the Empire, His Majesty dispatches a messenger to King Lima of Zofia for aid.

Meanwhile, Berkut attends to his regular duties with unyielding zest, ignoring the traitorous rumbling of his body into the night. Strangely, the maid continues to deliver extra morsels to his chamber. Considering the Empire's predicament, it would be shameless to continue accepting them without question. As such, he ventures to stop the maid amid her hasty retreat one night.

"If you intend for us to partake of these morsels despite the shortage, there are better ways," he says.

The maid's delicate face scrunches up in confusion.

"What is it?" asks Berkut.

"My lord, you are the sole recipient."

"What? That cannot be. What of His Majesty?" The maid shakes her head and Berkut continues, warning, "This is a grave offense. Tell me, whose food are you bringing me?"

"I-it . . . That is, the food you have been given a-all this time . . . My lord, forgive me!"

The maid throws herself to the floor. Berkut ignores the plea in her voice. Where matters of the state are concerned, he can ill afford to show leniency. Once more, he demands her for an answer.

"It is Her Highness'!"

Her words knock the breath out of him. In the next breath, Berkut tears down the corridor, leaving the trembling maid behind.

With his hands balled into tight fists at his side, he pants heavily outside his mother's door. He could invite himself inside, just as he had all those months ago; however, his hands remain stubbornly clenched where they are, for he knows better than to disrespect his mother so. In the end, he sucks in a shaky breath and walks back to his own chamber, where he grabs the nearest piece of loose furnishing and throws it at the wall.

Within a month, King Lima's response arrives—and with it, a royal mockery of the proud Empire on its last leg. The people of Rigel are left to survive on whatever they can find on barren soil, while the wife of Emperor Rudolf's late younger brother continues to deteriorate from malnourishment.

Within a week, Berkut's mother passes away while he is preoccupied with his studies.

Rigel invades Zofia.  
  


* * *

  
He wanders the halls of the castle in a stupor. The music of the ball in the great hall is muffled here, and he cannot hear the turning of the rumor mill. If it weren't for his title, he wouldn't have attended the ball in the first place. Silence and cold are his preferred company, away from the noise and heat of an insipid crowd.

A soft sigh snaps him out of his reverie. Berkut turns his head and there, near the corner where a window is shining a gentle light, stands a maiden.

"You there. What are you doing?"


End file.
